


Rebel Girls

by frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 90s music, Bikini Kill - Freeform, Blondie - Freeform, F/F, No Remus/Tonks, POV Third Person Omniscient, Peaches - Freeform, Punk Rock, Riot Grrrrl, Schmoozing, Tonks Lives, Tonks is cooler than Bill, and Fleur knows it, conspicuous consumption, crackfic, disbelief in objective beauty, gallery openings, gratuitous eye contact, gutter punks, lack of talent, no Bill/Fleur, no lack of confidence, post-war AU, vaginal sculptures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 23:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15851550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: Tonks and Bill play feminist punk songs to conspicuous consumers in support of Fleur’s new art gallery for witches and Luna’s vaginal sculptures therein. I mean what else could you want?





	Rebel Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for language.
> 
> Author’s Note: Probably best not to think too hard about where this fits on the HP timeline… For the purposes of this drabble, please join me in assuming that the Order won the war without the cost of Tonks’s life, and that Bill and Fleur never lasted beyond GoF. Also, I have purposefully not written Fleur's dialogue with an accent. You'll have to imagine it. 
> 
> Thanks: Big thank you to [**GingerTodgers**](http://gingertodgers.tumblr.com) for responding so generously to what was essentially me demanding a Flonks prompt with: Bill and tonks are a punk performance art duo, and Fleur is the gallery owner who hires them to play Luna Lovegood’s new exhibition opening. Big thanks also to [**violetclarity**](http://violetclarity.tumblr.com) for the 11th hour beta and to [**NachoDiablo**](https://nachodiablo.tumblr.com) for running [**Flonks Fest!**](https://flonksfest.tumblr.com)

“Be _my_ rebel girrrrrrl!!!” Tonks shriek-sings the last note of the cover, eyes closed, arms and drumsticks falling still at her sides. She opens her eyes and turns to look at Bill where he stands with his guitar next to her shabby drum kit. “We’re sounding great!”

“Sure,” says Bill, who had agreed to form a punk duo with Tonks precisely because musical skill was not a prerequisite for the genre. “But I’m still not sure if it was wise to accept this gig—“

“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket,” says Tonks, loudly. “Oops, sorry. _Quietus_.” Tonks ends the _Sonorous_ and continues. “Honestly Bill, I don’t know why you’re so fussed about this. It’s our first gig—The Insistent Minge will be heard by the masses! It’ll be fun!”

“Right,” says Bill, sceptically, thinking about their repertoire of three original songs and twelve covers—none of them good. 

“Bill, trust me on this,” says Tonks in sage tones. “Our sound—”

Bill scoffs with good-natured amusement at the notion that they have any such thing.

“Our sound,” Tonks repeats, more firmly, unphased, “is going to be perfect for this. That’s why Fleur asked us. She doesn’t expect us to be virtuosic.” Tonks doesn’t say it, but she hopes the gig will be good for Bill. They’re not trying to become career musicians, after all, just doing something creative, something _fun_ in the wake of the war. The rawness of their shared and private griefs has ebbed over the last three years. But it never goes away—not completely. And Bill needs to a bit of fun. Hell, _she_ needs a bit of fun. 

“I just think we might make asses of ourselves, Tonks,” counters Bill. “We don’t even really know how to pla—“

“Bill, shut up,” Tonks advises without malice. Sure, the bloke needs a break as much as the rest of them, but, Tonks thinks, he also needs to worry less about looking cool. “Look mate, we’re going to sing to stuffy, gallery-going fat cats about sticking it to the man and the inherent power of the vagina. We’ll blow their minds. They need it, trust me.”

“If you say so.” Bill shuts up, knowing when he’s been told. Tonks is a force to be reckoned with. And it’s not that she’s pushy; it’s that her zest, her incredible energy, her sense of fun and playfulness, are so fucking magnetic.

“And I do,” Tonks affirms. She might be clumsy, but she’s never been unsure of herself..

***

“Tonks!” Fleur shouts. “Bill!” Fleur leaves the woman she’s instructing about the lighting above one of Luna’s sculptures and rushes towards them across her gallery. Bill grins at her and opens his arms, expecting a hug, but Fleur shoots him a cheeky smirk and grabs Tonks, embracing her and kissing each of her cheeks in greeting. “You may wait your turn,” Fleur tells Bill. Tonks’s blushes, and her buzzed hair goes from a cool electric blue to a deep crimson to match.

“Wotcher, Fleur,” Tonks says, flushed, but not flustered. “Nice gallery you’ve got here! Thanks again for offering us this gig—we’re chuffed! Where’s Luna?”

Fleur releases Tonks and gives Bill a quick hug as she answers. “Merci. De rien. And, she has not yet arrived. I have told her to be fashionably late. Oh, this reminds me—please do not play Fuck the Pain Away until she has arrived. She says this is her favourite song from those we agreed upon.”

When Fleur had offered The Insistent Minge the job of furnishing the music for Luna’s debut opening at Fleur’s newly opened gallery, The Wicked Witch, the four of them had created a setlist together. Luna, as was her way, had encouraged Tonks and Bill to experiment, improvise, and otherwise perform their own material, but they confessed that, with only three shrieky, bass-drum pounding, two-minute-long originals, they would have to supplement. They—i.e., Bill (perhaps Molly’s proclivity towards propriety had _some_ affect on him, in spite of any ponytails or earrings)—had been a little concerned that their gutter punk sensibilities might not mesh with a posh art gallery. Fleur had dismissed their concerns (“Nonsense! This is a post-Mapplethorpe world! The people who come to these events want to pretend they are above being shocked.”) and Luna, smiling her serene smile, had assured Tonks and Bill that their sound was on theme (“I’m exploring how we can use sex both to heal from or to ignore our demons in this series, so smutty music will create just the right ambiance.”). 

“Where do you want us to set up, Fleur?” Tonks asks. 

“Just over there,” answers Fleur, pointing to a cleared space where they won’t obstruct the view of any of Luna’s pieces.

“And the gallery is entirely magical? We don’t have to worry about Muggles?” 

“Mais oui! The Wicked Witch’s M.O. is to highlight the skill and talent of magical women.”

“Perfect,” says Tonks. “We’ll start bringing our stuff in, then. Had to take a Portkey and then hire the biggest cab we could to get it here. Good thing we’re punk as fuck–we don’t worry ourselves about superfluities like basses or keyboards or rhythm guitars…”

“Or sounding good,” Bill appends.

Fleur laughs at them both and follows Tonks and Bill back outside to where the pieces of Tonks’s drum kit await on the kerb. Bill grabs his guitar, and Tonks picks up as many cymbals packed in their soft cases as she can. Without being asked, Fleur hoists the awkward bass drum into her arms and leads the way back inside.

***

By the time they’ve set up, hors d’oeuvres are being laid out upon colourful, artistically ripped tablecloths. Well, Tonks thinks, hors d’oeuvres might be stretching it: Fleur has done her best to avoid the exclusive, unwelcomingly swanky vibe at The Wicked Witch, and has simple fair laid out.

“Here,” says Fleur, approaching Tonks with a small plate of quartered sandwiches, “you have not eaten since you left England, I am sure.”

Tonks’s hands are full as she jots down the setlist in the right order on a piece of parchment supported by her left hand. “Open up,” Fleur instructs, gently putting a small quartered sandwich into Tonks’s mouth.

“Fanks,” Tonks tries. 

“Where’s mine?” Bill asks, half joking.

“The table is over there.” Fleur points across the room to where the tables are laid out by the bar.

“Thanks,” Bill chuckles as he walks in the direction Fleur indicated.

“I am grateful that you agreed to this, Tonks,” Fleur says graciously. “To play for free, it is not nothing.”

“Are you kidding?!” Tonks cries. “We’re thrilled you asked! Never played in front of an audience before, either of us. We’re pleased as punch to play for free at your inaugural event.” Tonks is quiet for a moment. It doesn’t feel awkward, but still she adds, “And it’s nice to be thought of.”

“I think of you often,” Fleur says. “I knew you would be perfect for this. Who better than a shape-shifting, rebel-cop resistance-fighter to create the mood for Luna’s pieces?”

“You make it sound more political than it is... Bill and I just like playing for fun, you know? It’s a laugh. We’re not bad on purpose. We’re just bad,” Tonks says without a hint of self-deprecation. On the contrary, she sounds rather pleased with herself.

“Of course! I understand this. But also, I think, you are too humble. You are a courageous woman, one people should see and hear.”

“Thanks,” says Tonks, flushing anew and shoving another quartered sandwich into her mouth to avoid saying something painfully assinine, like: “I like seeing and hearing you too. Want to make out?”

“After you eat, please prepare to start playing,” Fleur requests, biting into one of the sandwiches herself. “The show officially begins at 21.00,” she says through bread and cheese. “Of course, people will arrive late, but I do not want them to be greeted with quiet. Luna’s works are challenging, works that display the assertiveness of women’s sexuality. The atmosphere should support this, I think.”

“Aye aye.” Tonks salutes Fleur as she walks away to give orders to someone else. 

Lucky them.

***

Around 21.45, Tonks and Bill are gearing up for their second set after a short break to catch their breath and hydrate (if one counts guzzling lagers as a form of hydration (and _they_ do)). The gallery visitors are lapping up Luna’s works, pointing this way and that, gesturing to spectacularly vaginal flowers twining around each other and vulva-shaped patterns in tree bark, clearly treating their companions to their Deep and Important Readings™ of Luna’s sculptures.

Luna makes her entrance as The Insistent Minge finishes a Blondie number, and Fleur catches Tonks’s eye. It’s not difficult. Tonks’s eyes have been following Fleur all night. Fleur’s been her anchor—Tonks watches her while she sings and wails on her drums, and it helps to stay in the music instead of wondering if she’s successfully ruffling the feathers of this pretend-we’re-not-duller-than-paint-drying crowd. 

Fleur nods at Tonks, who, in turn, turns to nod at Bill. Bill gives her a look of acknowledgement and Tonks beings striking the cymbals in time. Well, mostly. Sort of. It’s a punk show, for fucks sake—it’s not supposed to be perfect.

Tonks grins as she crashes into the cymbals more insistently, channeling her rock’n’roll icon (Animal from the Muppets) for all she’s worth. Her eyes are open, and Fleur is looking at her. They’re making eye contact as Tonks begins, almost like a challenge: “Suckin’ on my titties like you wanna be calling me—”

Fleur doesn’t blush, doesn’t back down from the eye contact, doesn’t look embarrassed. But she does smirk. Fleur has always had a thing for cool people—she can’t help it. It’s not as superficial as people think, either. It’s nothing to do with image. Years of being told she is “beautiful” by vapid admirers who know nothing about her has done nothing for Fleur except make her question what that even means. She’s not attracted to Tonks because she _looks cool_ per se, but because of her earnest nonchalance, the honesty of her confidence, her openness, her sub-zero level of care about what other people think. Fleur had thought that Bill had all that, when they’d met in her final year of school. And Bill is cool, in his way. But Tonks—Tonks is genuine like no one Fleur has ever met. She’s passionate, a fighter, but also a sweet lummox who doesn’t care about looking perfect or being popular. Being popular comes naturally to Tonks. One can’t help but love her, because she can’t help but be herself, and it is incredibly compelling. It’s incredibly sexy.

Regretfully, Fleur returns to the task of schmoozing the guests as Tonks sings about the benefits of birth control and staying in school.

Near one of her more explicit sculptures, Luna stops talking to an interested collector and beckons her to dance.

***

At 22.30, Tonks and Bill close their final set with an original: How’d You Like My Pig Nose, Mum?

Fleur is seeing the last visitors out the door as Luna dances over to Tonks and Bill to thank them for playing her through her first opening. 

Fleur levels a secure locking charm at the door and heads over to Tonks, Luna, and Bill.

“Luna! Félicitations! What a success! You sold three sculptures! This is marvellous for a debut, you know.”

“Thank you Fleur.” Luna hasn’t completely given up dancing even though the music has stopped. She’s beaming. “Congratulations to you on your first event!”

“You’re both marv,” Tonks tells them. “It was a gas, Fleur. And it seemed like people really took a shine to the message of your collection, Luna,” Tonks enthuses. 

“Oh, I’m sure it had more to do with posturing and conspicuous consumption,” Luna counters, though not without losing her shine (or whatever beat is keeping her dancing). 

“This is true, I’m afraid,” Fleur agrees. “People want to get some lesbian art in their collections while it is still ‘edgy.’” Fleur punctuates the words with air quotes and a roll of her eyes. “Nevertheless,” she adds optimistically, “the more showings there are by witches, the more people will take our art seriously.”

“Preach,” says Tonks, picking up a half-drunk bottle of lager from the floor, tipping it to Luna and Fleur in turn, and taking a swig.

Fleur snags the bottle from her hand and takes her own sip with a nod of affirmation.

“Er, I’ll start pacing the kit away, shall I?” Bill asks, amused. 

“I’ll help!” offers Luna. “I’d love to take up drumming. It looks very cathartic to smash away like that.”

“It is the way I do it,” Tonks calls after her. 

“Tonks and I don’t let things like quality and good form get in our way,” Bill says sagely.

They walk away, leaving Fleur passing the bottle of lager back to Tonks.

“I am glad you agreed to play for us,” Fleur says for the millionth time. “Will you be playing more shows?”

“Unlikely,” admits Tonks. “We’re not really advertising ourselves. We’re just having a laugh together in my garage a few nights a week. It’s good to expend some excess energy, you know?”

“Bien sur.” 

It’s quiet for a moment. Fleur has the bottle again. It’s nearly empty. 

“Anyway, we only had this gig because you asked. And you only knew about us because we’re friends.”

“I am disappointed.” Fleur looks Tonks straight in the eye, completely unabashed. “I enjoyed watching you.”

Tonks blushes again. She doesn’t try to hide it. She’s not embarrassed; she’s pleased, turned on, and not a little surprised. She is not usually on the business end of this kind of attention. She likes it. She wants to yield to it. She wants to repay it in kind. She wants everything.

“Thanks,” Tonks manages, voice a bit throaty. Her hand finds its way to the back of her head and rubs at her short hair reflexively. 

“You shall perform here again, I am sure.” 

Fleur squats down, placing the near-empty bottle back on the floor, freeing her hands. She straightens once more, looking Tonks straight in the eye. Tonks doesn’t shy away. Fleur takes this as permission to proceed, and hooks each index finger around a loop in Tonks’s baggy jeans, pulling Tonks’s body flush against hers. “In the meantime, perhaps you will give me a private performance?”

“We’re off,” Bill hollers. “Luna’s calling a taxi and we’re taking the gear to her place.”

“Then we’re going dancing! We won’t ask you to join us. We can see you’re busy.”

Tonks waves them a quick goodbye, but doesn’t look away from Fleur. Instead she smiles, face to face with Fleur, emboldened by her forthrightness. She leans in and gives Fleur’s earlobe a nip. “I’d be delighted,” she stage whispers into Fleur’s ear before kissing her.

Tonks pauses, her lips still on Fleur’s. She moistens her lower lip, and Fleur pokes her tongue out to flick it across Tonks’s tongue with a spirit of mischief.

“Magnifique.”

**Author's Note:**

> Songs lyrics sung herein are from Bikini Kill’s Rebel Girl and Peaches’s Fuck the Pain Away. The fic title is a play on the title of a good historical article, ["The Insistent Fringe,"](https://www.jstor.org/stable/2505572?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents>) by Vivian Sobchack.


End file.
